


Heartstrings

by darwinsdonut



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Brief mention of Kaikaina, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14200032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darwinsdonut/pseuds/darwinsdonut
Summary: Simmons had no idea Grif knew how to sing, let alone play multiple stringed instruments.





	Heartstrings

“Let’s go in there!”  
Simmons paused as Grif pointed in excitement at a window. A drum-kit sat with a couple guitars next to a small glass door. Simmons’ mind drew a vague memory of Grif playing guitar, but… Hadn’t that been a dream?  
“Really? We’re like, two blocks from the house- we could go home, order pizza-”  
But Grif was already opening the door and walking in under the tinkle of a bell. Wow, really? He was passing up pizza? Simmons had played flute in high school, but he’d never been over-eager to run into a music store. He caught the door before it closed, entering after Grif, to see Grif already asking the clerk something.  
“Oh, yeah, by the back wall,” the clerk said, pointing.  
Grif whirled to the back wall, his eyes bright and happy, a different light in them than Simmons was used to. Simmons followed, a little wary, passing a shelf of guitar strings and picks. Toward the back, a few barstools stood in an opening, surrounded by guitars on stands and hung on the wall. Grif held up a shiny acoustic guitar with a pleasing sienna gradient; maybe that memory wasn’t a dream, but Simmons didn’t really remember Grif playing guitar. Had they been drunk? It was possible.  
Simmons approached, a slight drag in his steps, as Grif plopped down on one of the barstools, guitar propped across his knee, and gave the strings an experimental twang. He adjusted the knobs at the end, making Simmons painfully aware of his own musical illiteracy, and then twanged it again. He looked pleased, though Simmons barely heard a difference. Simmons started to lean on a shelf and then felt it lean with him and straightened up.  
Grif’s fingers positioned along the neck of the guitar and when he strummed this time, a different sound came out. He repositioned them, strummed again, and another chord played. Grif did this a few more times, making Simmons aware that Grif was entirely in his own world right then.  
A rhythm appeared, certain chords playing in a pattern as Grif tapped his foot against the leg of the barstool, a smile on his lips as he seemed to remember the melody.  
“O wai ka halia ka anoi a loko…”  
Simmons forced his jaw to clamp shut to keep it from dropping. Holy shit.  
“O wai ka halia ka anoi a loko, O nei a ka pō, Nou ka haliʻa ē Kalua…”  
Grif sings!? Since when does Grif sing? Playing guitar, Simmons could accept- but singing, _in Hawaiian _, holy shit. And he actually sounded good- a bit more tenorous than Simmons would have expected, but good. _Holy shit.___  
Simmons watched as Grif stopped after a verse and put down the guitar. He tapped his chin, eyes glancing around. He seemed unable to find what he wanted. Simmons, still baffled that Grif not only played guitar _(well),_ but that he also could sing, stood by in a vague sort of awe as Grif approached a wonky instrument and let out a laugh.  
“Holy shit, a lute? I haven’t seen one of these in _years.”_  
If he could play that-  
Grif sat back down on the stool and started playing as though he’d just stopped practicing last night. A few experimental plucks, and then he picked up the rhythm again. And how the fuck did Simmons not know about this!? His boyfriend could play a _lute-_ only weak-ass bards in D &D could play lutes. But Grif could play a lute. When had he learned!?  
Grif returned to the same Hawaiian song, “O wai ka halia ka anoi a loko…”  
The sound, as Simmons started to imagine it, didn’t quite fit with a lute, either. Grif seemed to enjoy the fusion, but Simmons figured there was something else he was looking for. Then it hit him- Hawaii. Duh. Simmons scanned the guitar section and didn’t see it; he paced a few feet away, remaining in hearing range of Grif’s soft tenor, and then found what he was looking for, around the other corner. A smile toyed at his lips at the sight, and he forced it down as he picked up the instrument. And God, Simmons played the fucking _flute._  
Simmons headed back to the barstool where Grif sat and held up the find. “I think this might fit better.”  
“Oh, hell yeah! Where’d you find it?” Grif said, taking the instrument.  
“Just around the corner.”  
Simmons sat on the other bar stool, feeling too tall, too gangly, as his feet touched the ground still. Grif treated the new instrument with the same experimentation- a few plucks, an adjustment, more plucks, another adjustment, and then he was ready. Simmons was prepared for what was about to come, a lovely rendition of the song he’d heard half of twice now- but when Grif started to play, it was different chords.  
Grif played through four chords, and when he got back to the first, started different lyrics- English this time, a deeper pitch.  
“Down in the basement, locked in my head,” he sang softly, a gentle vibrato on the stressed syllables, “All of the words that I wish you had said.”  
It wasn’t a happy song- about two people in love, fighting, the lyricist wanting to reconcile- but in a quiet music shop, with ukulele chords plucking melody into the quiet, Grif’s gentle tenor, Simmons was in love. With the song, with the sound, with Grif, with everything about the quiet detour into the music shop.  
Something bittersweet flickered in Grif’s eyes as he finished the song. A ghost of a smile curved the edge of his lips, and then he stood and put the ukulele back on its stand around the corner. He turned to Simmons and clapped his hands together. “Ready to go?”  
Ready to go? Simmons was ready to hear more singing, more playing, more Grif- but something still ghosted in Grif’s expression, and Simmons didn’t know who taught him to play ukulele, and it didn’t feel like the right time to ask. So he stood from the barstool and nodded.  
“Yeah, man, I’m starving. Let’s go get some pizza.”  
The bell tinkled at their leave, and the street greeted them once more, the rushing cars not half as pleasant as the music they left behind.

___Grif’s laughter filled the table, pizza stains around his parted lips and guffaws echoing around the room._  
“Shut the fuck up!” Simmons protested. “It wasn’t my fault!”  
“Dude, you are such a fucking liar!”  
Simmons sighed and sat down. “If you hadn’t left your sock on the floor, this wouldn’t even have happened.”  
“Whatever, dude. Here.”  
Grif passed him a skinny piece of cheese pizza, making Simmons roll his eyes. “Thanks for the runt piece.”  
“It’s that or pineapples, what do you want me to do? I already ate all my slices with cheese.”  
Simmons wanted to bicker more, but, fuck it, Grif was laughing, as he hadn’t done since they left that music shop an hour ago. Simmons had even spent money on that abominable pineapple pizza Grif would kill a man for- just to end up betting Grif wouldn’t eat the whole pizza, causing Grif to raise it to a pizza and a half, leaving Simmons with a few slices of cheese pizza, meaning when Simmons tripped over Grif’s sock and fell on his ass and dropped his plate face-down onto the floor, Simmons ended up bruised and completely without pizza.  
“Of course you already ate all your slices with cheese,” Simmons said. “Because you know that pineapple pizza’s _disgusting_ and triple-cheese pizza is godly.”  
“Better idea,” Grif said, around a mouthful of pineapple pizza. “Triple cheese _pineapple_ pizza.”  
“Please stop destroying everything I love.”  
Grif’s response was to stack two pieces together- one cheese (lying bastard) and one pineapple- and chomp down on both while making pointed eye contact with Simmons. Simmons watched with feigned disgust, his own piece of pizza forgotten in his hand as he watched his boyfriend down that monstrosity. He kissed that mouth. _Willingly._ What the fuck.  
“It’s fucking delicious,” Grif said as he finished the bite, as though that concluded the argument. Simmons sat back, staring up at the ceiling in a silent plead for the universe’s mercy. His pleas went unanswered- Grif finished the meal (a whole fucking pizza and a half) with emphatic praise for the pineapple. Simmons didn’t sign up for this shit.  
As they finished, Grif moved to the living room and started watching some trash adult cartoon while Simmons cleaned up the mess from dinner. Once the kitchen was satisfactorily tidied, Simmons joined his boyfriend on the couch. Something pressed against his thoughts, despite his attempts to force it down, and finally he reworked the question into something else.  
“Why didn’t I know you play guitar? And ukulele and lute?”  
“Hmm? Oh.” Grif didn’t turn from his show, keeping his head on Simmons’ shoulder. “I dunno, it never came up?”  
“I’ve known you for four years, Grif. That’s a long time for something to never come up.”  
He shrugged. “I didn’t exactly have an instrument lying around.” He said it casually, but Simmons had known him long enough, he heard the undertone, wist and suppressed remorse. “I used to play a lot; I kinda worked at a music store back when it was just me and Kai. But- I dunno, things changed.”  
There was a lot unsaid there, and Simmons wouldn’t press, because it was Grif, and you didn’t press with Grif. He either told you what he wanted or you never knew. But this seemed deeper than most of the things Grif didn’t talk about.  
An idea rooted in Simmons’ head, kind of crazy, kind of genius. By the time Simmons had showered and the two laid down to sleep, the idea had sprouted and taken shape, and maybe it wouldn’t fix four years but it could make for an easier future. 

___The next couple of weeks passed without incident. Just work, the same shitty job, same shitty bills, same shitty adulting. Within two days, any ghost the music shop had reminded Grif of had faded, and Grif was back to his usual pizza-happy constantly-napping self. Simmons didn’t bring it up again, despite the amount of questions he had about the whole thing._  
Then the day came; Simmons was home before Grif, which wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, but it was acceptable. He went first to their room, prepared, and then cleaned up the living room from Grif’s Netflix binge last night (and all associated snacks).  
Then he paced, fixing things here and there, sweeping the kitchen, straightening Kaikaina’s framed sunset painting (the one with the penis-shaped cloud because it was Kaikaina), skimming take-out menus for dinner ideas. He’d wait on dinner for Grif, since Grif was going to eat more of it anyway, and Simmons was never all that hungry. Then he paced some more.  
Finally, the lock jiggled and the door opened, Grif blowing in with tired eyes and tossing his keys on the table before closing the door and collapsing on the couch. “Did you get my text?”  
Not quite how Simmons imagined it going. “Uh… No?”  
“Fuck. Can you order Chinese? I’ll pay when they get here.”  
“Oh- uh- yeah, sure.”  
He went to the phone and ordered, while a groaning Grif kicked off his shoes and threw an arm over his face. Long day, Simmons guessed. He was late coming home, so it had probably been stressful. But Simmons wasn’t very good with patience, or with things not quite going how he expected. He kept the twinge of frustration down; that was selfish and stupid and this was about Grif, not his personal expectations.  
Once the Chinese was ordered, Simmons walked into the living room and picked up Grif’s boots from the floor and set them neatly by the door. “Hey, uh, Grif- can you go get my wallet from the nightstand?”  
Simmons pretended to be busy wiping down the counters, which would be the third time he’d wiped down the counters that evening.  
Grif groaned. “Can’t you do it? You’re already up; I’m tired…”  
Another twinge of frustration. _Just go in the damn room._ “Please? I’m trying to get the kitchen clean.”  
“It’s already clean. Being anal about every speck of dust will just drive you mad.”  
“Come on, I’ll buy the Chinese food.”  
A pause, and then: _“Fine.”_  
Yes! Okay, of course that worked, and he should’ve opened with it- or just gone into the room and called Grif in there, but, oh well, the end was the same. Simmons’ eyes flickered from the wash-cloth, which circled the same spot of counter repeatedly, to Grif as he walked to their room. Anticipation buzzed through him. Yes- here we go!  
Grif opened the door and flicked on the light, and Simmons grinned as he heard him gasp.  
Simmons crossed around the counter and saw Grif gravitating toward it. Grif reached the polished, brand-new ukulele, sitting on its stand in front of their bed, as Simmons entered the room. Grif picked it up and half-turned to Simmons, his hands automatically going to position to play it.  
“Simmons- did you-? How did-? These are so expensive!”  
“I set aside some cash from last two paychecks,” Simmons said, meandering over with a grin. Grif, gaping, plucked the strings a few times.  
“Simmons.” There was that ghost again, but there, also, was that bright, happy light- brighter now, drowning out the ghost. “Holy shit. You really- I mean, you should’ve, but- they’re expensive! And this isn’t like, a basic beginners ukulele, this is a good one! This is the kind I’d be scared to even pick up in a store! Where’d you even find it?”  
“I asked around, found some places,” Simmons said, grinning, a little smug. He rarely saw Grif this happy when it wasn’t about food or getting a long nap.  
“Holy shit,” Grif whispered. “I just- holy shit.”  
Grif carefully- carefully- set the ukulele down on the stand, uncharacteristically careful for Grif. And before Simmons could blink, Grif had slammed into him, head on his chest and arms around his sides.  
“Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-so-fucking-much!” All in a rush, and Simmons was grinning and turning pink, and Grif was still going, “Oh my god, I used to play the uke for Kai when we were little and she couldn’t sleep, and I sucked, and then ours was destroyed, and then that music shop opened and I begged for a job and came in every day until they gave me one and- fuck, _thank you.”_  
He pulled back from the hug and grabbed Simmons face, tugging him down so their lips met. Grif mashed a kiss to Simmons, and then a few more, and then stepped back and picked up the ukulele, and then kissed Simmons again.  
“Thank you.”  
Simmons’ smugness peaked, but it manifested in a genuine smile. “No problem, Grif.”  
“I- well. I appreciate it. I would’ve told you I play a lot sooner if I’d known you’d do this.”  
The words Grif had almost spoken hung around them. They weren’t quite at I love you, but as Grif sat on the edge of their bed and started playing that song from two weeks ago again- _Down in the basement, locked in my head_ \- Simmons knew they were a whole closer. 


End file.
